


Home

by waterbird13



Series: Tumblr Fics [457]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Domestic, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 10:55:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: They've been away for months. Now they're back.





	Home

The apartment is humming when they get back, Hardison turning on lights and computers and the climate system from his smart phone in the car. It’s relaxing, in its own way, to have the house awake and ready for occupancy, to have to do nothing but be home.

It’s been so long since they’ve been home. It’s been months and months of hotels, of flights and car rides and, on one memorable location, a long-haul truck cabin for Eliot for three days. It’s been dealing with the BrewPub only over the phone, and Amy keeping a waiting list of clients for them.

It’s been rough. Not that they’d trade it for anything, of course. This is the life they chose, the cause they’ve taken up. There’s no turning back at this point, and they wouldn’t want it if there was. But it’s taken a toll on them all.

They took down a whole network of corruption, robbed the companies blind to funnel the money through an organization that gets it back to families harmed by the crash, and set up safety nets for the most at-risk employees besides. It’s been…good. It’s been good, they made a difference, people’s lives will change for the better because of what they did, it’s just…a lot.

“I could sleep for a week,” Hardison says lowly, even as checks over his equipment.

Eliot grunts. Parker’s disappeared, then reappears at the top of the stairs, already changed to a pair of Eliot’s old boxers and Hardison’s sweatshirt.

Eliot paces the apartment twice, checking window locks and making sure everything is exactly where he left it, not a hair out of place. He’s always like this, but something is just a tad bit slower than usual.

He then goes to the kitchen, steps measured and lethargic. “Get an ice pack for your back,” Hardison calls, not even turning around from his computer, just always at least a little aware of Parker and Eliot.

Eliot grunts. “It’s fine, Hardison,” he dismisses. It aches, but no more than anything else. Eliot wouldn’t be Eliot without a few aches. He pokes around and sighs. “If ya want dinner, we’re gonna have to get food.” The cupboards are bare of anything nutritious, sugar cereal, soda, and candies the only things left behind.

There’s silence for a moment, conveying what everyone thinks of that idea. “Pub food?” Parker offers.

Hardison and Eliot look at each other, eyes and eyebrows and frowns all the communication they need to say that Parker is not dressed for human company, that one of them has to step outside the apartment, put a game face back on, order the food from the kitchen, wait for it, and bring it back, and, no, Hardison is not going to play rock-paper-scissors for it, they know how that will end.

Eliot huffs. He’s a sucker for sad eyes, and his partners have them in spades. “Fine,” he grumbles, shoving shoes back on his feet and heading over to the kitchen to order, not even stopping to ask what they want.

“Now he’s going to make it,” Parker complains.

“You don’t complain about Eliot-food,” Hardison scolds gently. “The man is an angel in the kitchen.”

“But it’ll take forever, and it’ll just taste tired, ‘cause Eliot’s tired,” Parker says, moving to the couch and tucking her bare legs under her.

Hardison moves away from the computers, coming over to sit beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, letting her drop her head against his shoulder. As much work as they’ve all done, as crazy as things have been, Parker’s been up late nights, done so many sleepless nights, making sure all the pieces fall into place.

She’s asleep when Eliot gets back, but pops up immediately when the door pops open and the smell of freshly-made pasta with some of Eliot’s marinara sauce—served in the pub every day—and meatballs wafts through the apartment. Hardison, who wasn’t far behind her in terms of sleep, takes a moment longer to become alert, but Eliot’s food could tempt the dead.

Eliot doesn’t even make them eat at a table, tired as they all are.

It doesn’t taste like tiredness. It tastes like…

“Home,” Parker announces. The boys stare at her a moment, Hardison with a meatball in his mouth and Eliot scraping the side of his plate for the last of the sauce.

“Yeah, babe,” Hardison agrees once he’s swallowed. “Home.”


End file.
